Blood-Red Tears
by ViennPeridot
Summary: IDW-Verse. One-sided Drift/Ratchet. What went through Drift's head from when he arrived on Delphi with Ratchet until just after the virus begins to run its course in Drift. !WARNING-Mentions of Euthanasia. This was published on my AO3 under the title 'Tears of Blood'


Delphi was a nightmare. Why in the Pits of the Unmaker had they come?!

He didn't really know about anyone else, but Drift knew why he was there.

Ratchet was haring off into danger, so Drift followed along to protect him. _Somehow_ he had to attempt to repay the incalculable debt that he owed to his saviour.

Once again he was overwhelmed by the sheer _presence_ of the mech as Ratchet took command of a dire situation. In that moment Drift had no doubts. Where Ratchet went, he went too. Went to watch the Medic's back and protect him while he saved the lives of others.

When Pipes began displaying signs of the virus and started to panic, the first impulse Drift obeyed was the one to protect, to come between Ratchet and a potential source of harm.

It didn't matter that any of them might already have been infected. Inconsequential that Ratchet was destined to be exposed as he tried to save the patients of the Delphi outpost. If there was any way that Drift could place his body between Ratchet and danger, he would do it.

No matter how futile it was.

Drift's spark surged with admiration and pleasure as Ratchet talked Pipes into temporarily calming. It was truly a wonder to behold. If only there was a way he could tell the older 'bot how much he regretted letting him down. How much his kindness had meant in the gutters of Rodion. How much he cared.

For now, all he could do was bait Ratchet to get the reassurance that yes; Ratchet was still speaking to him and maybe, just maybe didn't loathe him with every atom of his being.

Attention in lieu of affection.

He could live with that.

When they got back to the Lost Light, Drift would tell him. He had to. No more putting it off. All or nothing. No matter how awkward it could make things he would risk everything on one throw of the dice.

Obeying the order to keep Pipes occupied without killing him was intensely difficult for Drift. Reactions trained into him until they were one level above coded instinct were _screaming_ at him to eliminate a threat before it hurt Ratchet.

Aligning with his training were beliefs he still carried from his life on the streets of Rodion.

If this was the streets he would have done it in a sparkbeat. Given Pipes as quick and painless an end as he was capable of, on the understanding that if their situations were reversed then Pipes would do the same for him. The gift of a swift death when the only other alternative was protracted and unspeakable suffering.

For the forgotten and unwanted in the gutters of Cybertronian society, a merciful death was the ultimate act of compassion in a harsh and unforgiving universe.

The Swordsmech was so focused on just keeping Pipes _away_ from Ratchet that he paid less attention to his surroundings than was considered wise. Finding himself backed into a corner, Drift panicked. Reluctant to go for his swords –_Ratchet said Don't Kill. RatchetsaidDON'TKILL_- he appealed to the only mech who had ever provided some sort of solid direction for him in the entire length of his functioning.

The acerbic comment of '_Something __**non-fatal**_' delivered in the implacable voice of Command spurred Drift into action.

Throwing the sword he had reflexively drawn, Drift transformed and dodged around Pipes to catch his weapon before it hit the floor, using the hilt to knock the poor mech unconscious.

Ratchet was magnificent in action.

Drift flanked him on their charge through the Delphi facility, finding it difficult to tear his optics away from the red and white Medic in order to scan their surroundings for danger. He managed in quick spurts, relishing the chance to finally be _useful_ to Ratchet, bearing witness to the Lost Light CMO showing more life in this plague-ridden house of horrors than he had since leaving Cybertron.

It was absolutely typical that this nightmarish situation would boost Ratchet's flagging spirits where everything Drift had tried so far failed.

The Swordsmech continued to stand guard while the medics laboured over Pipes, silently bearing witness until he felt fluid gather in his optics. The fluid exceeded reuptake capacity to overflow and trail down his faceplates.

That was strange. He wasn't that close to the mech on the table. Why would he be crying for him?

The oddity awakened Drift to the fact that there was an unpleasant taste on the back of his glossa. Chemoreceptors were reporting. . . oh no.

Oh no no no no.

Tears that were only partly composed of his own rusting optics were now flowing down Drift's cheeks.

"Ratchet? I need to talk to you."

Drift prayed to Primus that somehow, _just this once_ the Medic would leave his patient in another's capable hands and give Drift all of his glorious attention for a few short breems.

A few short breems were likely to be all the coherence Drift had left.

He had to tell Ratchet now. Tell him everything and tell him **_right now _**before the plague took away his ability to process anything but the pain of disntegration.

The Swordsmech didn't even get a glance. Drift's spark throbbed and shrank in on itself as Ratchet stayed fixated on his patient. The CMO held up a red hand, warning Drift back.

"Stay back! You might get infected."

Drift wanted to laugh, to scream, to break everything in the room.

Instead he shed tears composed of optical lubricants and his own lifeblood as he gaped at Ratchet.

_Just look at me, you idiot!_

_"_I think it's a bit late for that." With a monumental effort of will Drift forced his vocaliser to static-free serenity. "Pipes must've **_sprayed_** me."

Those words finally, _finally_ got Ratchet to look away from his patient.

Why was it that the mech only seemed to really _look_ at him when Drift was dying?!

A world of horror was clearly visible in Ratchet's optics before it was buried under layers of Medical Coding responding to the demands of a desperate situation.

Drift held the blue gaze, optical lubricants thinning the virus-engendered gore on his cheeks until his tears were less the colour of rusting Cybertronian internals and something more akin to tears of human blood.

Tears of blood were pouring down Drift's face as he tried to put everything he could never say into two words and hope that Ratchet could decipher the rest of it later.

Ratchet was smart. He'd figure it out.

"I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry I messed up._

_I'm sorry I let you down._

_I'm sorry I couldn't live up to your expectations._

_I'm sorry I didn't become the mech you hoped._

_I'm sorry for the things I've done._

_I'm sorry I wasn't good enough._

_I'm sorry I'm such a coward._

_I'm sorry I never told you. . . I love you._


End file.
